


One Hell of an Amen

by GoldStarGrl



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, M/M, Morphine, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 10:32:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3064535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldStarGrl/pseuds/GoldStarGrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Series. The cancer is getting really bad. The love of his life is in excruciating pain. So House does what he always does.</p><p>He figures out how to fix it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Hell of an Amen

"Ah... _ah_..."

Wilson twisted back and forth on the sheets of the motel bed in agony. The more he moved, the more tangled he became in the wires and tubes shoved into his arms and wrists.

His hands were clenched so tightly into fists his fingers turned white and trembled. His skin was the color of sour milk, and a thin sheen of sweat covered his entire body, his hair dark and plastered to his forehead. His breaths came out in labored, tortured gasps. 

House stood at the end of the bed, both hands resting on the crook of his cane. He looked down at Wilson, unmoving, unblinking, until those brown eyes flitted up, shiny and red rimmed and pained, and met his own.

They were so tired. 

It was October 16th. Four months, three weeks, and four days since they left New Jersey. Four months, three weeks, and four days of the open road and weird hotels and sickeningly adorable diners and each other.

_Three days until the clock ran out._

“It’s time.” Wilson gasped, looking at House. 

_Maybe less._  

House shook his head.

“You’re ahead of schedule.”

“I’ve always been an overachiever.” He groaned. Turning on his side, he pulled his trembling legs up to his chest. “I need you to do it."

House pressed his lips together and looked up at the ceiling.

"If I don't get the dose right-"

"Do  _you_ think you won't get the dose right?"

House scoffed, at the question and at Wilson's all around stupidity. “Your kidneys will shut down. Then your heart and lungs, and finally your brain. You'll lose your mind. It could take hours.”

“Sitting here waiting to die could take _days_!” He growled. He had gotten so snappy, so hardened in his pain. 

House sighed and limped to Wilson’s side, standing in between him and the morphine drip, which was connected to his left arm through a thin rubber tube. “What you’re asking me to do-"

Wilson grabbed his wrist, jerking it so House was pulled down to his eye level. “Since when have you cared about the rules? Or morality?”

“I don’t. I care about you.” 

A silence fell over the motel room. Wilson’s didn’t loosen his grip, but his eyes betrayed his shock, widening and rapidly blinking. He panted hard, staring at House, who swallowed and looked away.

“Is it so wrong that I want a couple more days with you?” He muttered. Wilson didn’t respond at first and House’s stomach froze as he mind jumped to the worst case scenario. But when he looked back up, Wilson was still breathing. 

The power in his eyes lessened a little, and he looked sad. Wilson gulped and shook his head. His gaze was fixed on something past House’s head. When he spoke, it was clear he was not the one he was talking to.

“We’re always going to want just a little longer.” He murmured.

"What assisted suicide pamphlet is that from?" House snapped, but he didn't get his answer.

Wilson was hit with another wave of violent hacking then, and let go of House’s wrist as he shook. He coughed into his elbow, a gesture that under different circumstances would have made House laugh. _Considerate to the end._

So considerate. He had already lasted so much longer than most people would, fought even though he didn't want to. He had put up with so much pain. If - _when -_ it had been House, and Wilson had had a way to stop the hurting, he didn't hesitate for a second.

“OK.” House said, just as softly.

Wilson looked up at him again, through watery eyes, but House turned away, pressing his thumb against the top arrow on the morphine drip. _Up up up._

“Thank you.” Wilson breathed. House stepped away again, drumming his fingers on the wood of his cane. “Wait-“

"Oh, don't tell me you're changing your mind."

Wilson held both his arms out, like a child who had fallen off the swing. “Come lie next to me.”

House hesitated for a moment, thinking of all the deflective, _Brokeback Mountain_ jokes he could make. As if reading his mind, Wilson lifted his head with a grunt and gave him a reproachful look.

“Gregory House, who the _hell_ are you trying to impress?” 

“…Have I ever told you how much you sound like my mother?” House said, hobbling over to the other side of the bed. "It's very unbecoming."

It was a stiff, old mattress, and the muted floral bedspread had been kicked off by Wilson long ago. He cast his cane to the floor and lay down, the best he could, on his side, his head curved in just a few inches from Wilson’s.

“We could’ve done this somewhere nicer.” He mumbled. “This place is a dump.” 

Wilson shook his head. “We had thirty dollars left. I’m surprised they let us in here.” 

The morphine was taking effect; The lines in his forehead were starting to relax, as were his balled up fists. House shrugged.

“Eh, I may have taken a little more out of your cousin's 'rainy day fund' back in Oklahoma.”

Wilson paused, the words taking a little longer to process in his increasingly muddled state. Then he grinned and chuckled softly, the skin around his eyes crinkling.

“You’re such an ass.”

House smirked, but said nothing. He was counting in his head. Only a few minutes more before Wilson lost his lucidity. Only a little while after that until it was done.

_Ten minutes from now, you'll be all alone_. Said a tiny, hateful voice.

_No_.

Without another thought, and with exceptional calm, he propped himself up on his elbow and reached across Wilson, to the tubes.

“Whatter you doin’?” Wilson asked, slurring slightly.

“Getting a condom.”

House fished a second tube out of the nightstand drawer and pushed into the bottom of the hanging bag. He held the other end close to him, pressed against his wrist. He closed his eyes and dug the needle into the crook of his arm, letting out a small gasp at the pinch.

“House?”

He lay back down as the morphine started pumping into his system. His own body already feeling lighter, his leg less achy and twisted. “I’m still here.”

Wilson looked down at his stained McGill sweatshirt, seemingly fascinated by the red iron-on letters. In his haze, he didn’t seem to have noticed what House had done.  “I’m really scared.”

House nodded, his stubble making a scratchy noise against the cheap white sheets. He was getting too fuzzy for jokes. And even if he wasn’t, he probably still would have said “I know.”

"What's going to happen?"

Wilson didn't want to hear his diatribe about the nonexistence of God and the cruel random nature of the universe. He already had that memorized. Instead House reached over and pushed a strand of damp hair out of Wilson's face.

"The sun's due to go down in a couple of minutes. And unlike  _some people,_  it has a respect for doing things on time." Wilson tried to smile again, his muscles weak. "And a couple hours after that, it's going to be tomorrow. A Wednesday."

"I meant you. What's gonna happen to you?"

House looked down at his arm, watching the clear liquid squeeze down the tube and flood his blood.

"I'm gonna stay right here. Maybe open up a small pawn shop on the dresser. A Disgraced Doctors Store for the rest of us."

"I love you." Wilson said, and the lines of worry reappeared. "I'm so sorry I have to leave."

House nodded minutely. Despite the morphine, there seemed to be a lump pressing on his throat with increasing strain.

"I love you too." So softly it might as well have been in his head. 

Wilson held out his arm again, letting it fall over the curve of House’s side and back with a dull _smack_. He was, somehow, still warm. His touch made House’s skin tingle. 

“Could you kiss me?” He whispered. House raised an eyebrow with increasingly difficulty.

“What?” Though he had heard him perfectly well.

Wilson didn't shrug or look away, embarrassed. "I want..." There was a whisper, a ghost of a smile on his lips. His eyes, beautiful and brown and sharp, were losing focus. “...one more. For the road."

House knew at this point his vision was swimming; His own couldn’t be far behind.

So before he lost his sight and his nerve he lifted a heavy hand to Wilson’s jaw and leaned in, kissing him gently, chastely. Wilson drew his hand back and pressed it against House's chest.

Both of their breaths smelled stale and horrible. But, much like their entire relationship, the bitter didn’t stop the sweetness, the love and whatever other nameless warm and fuzzy things, from slipping through. Wilson tilted his head up, responding for a few seconds.

And then he didn’t.  

House didn’t open his eyes or break away. He gripped the side of Wilson’s face, pressing their foreheads together, as though if he willed himself hard enough he could transfer some of his life force into his friend through osmosis.

_Everyone turns to fantasy, in the end._

But the morphine made him weak, and his hand dropped, his body fell back. Wilson had closed his eyes in the last moments, shutting the door on that beautiful light forever. His left hand had fallen from House's sternum, and they both lay slack by his chest.

House dug his hand down and lay it flat underneath Wilson's, their fingertips pressing together. His pulse was slow, but still beating in his wrist, a mockery of the silence coming from Wilson’s. 

Everything was going dark now. He tried to drink in the last sights he’d ever see, the ugly wood paneling on the wall, the long, straight metal stand that held the morphine, Wilson’s face. His closed eyes and soft hair and his finally achieved peace. 

House smirked. “Toldja I'd get the right dose."

Their hands stayed pressed together as the night came.


End file.
